Cole arched a brow at her smooth Spanish. He ordered a carne asada burrito and a soda, paying for their meal with cash. After they got their drinks, he sat down with her at a green table. “Are you Mexican?”
“On my mom’s side.”
“I know some Spanish.”
“Do you?”
“Your name means ‘mine.’”
Yes, it did. And hearing him say the word in a possessive tone made her flush with heat. She took off her jacket, aware of his gaze on her half-buttoned blouse. The air was cooler now, caressing her bare skin.
“Tell me about your husband.”
Throat dry, she tasted her jamaica. It was a fruity red tea, tart like cranberry juice. “What about him?”
“How long has he been dead?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Months?”
“Years.”
“But you’re still sad.”
Cole must have assumed that she’d been crying over Philip on the bus bench. She had been, in a way. Letting go of her plan meant letting go of him. “When will you stop being sad about your brother dying?”
“Never.”
She looked into his eyes, seeing her pain reflected there.
“Was he like you?” Cole asked.
“Like me?”
He examined her sheer blouse and windblown hair. “Smart, classy...rich.”
“He was educated. We were comfortable.”
“Comfortable means rich to me.”
She couldn’t disagree.
“What did he do for fun?”
“He collected stuff,” she said, toying with her straw. “Knickknacks and antiques. He liked sculptures. Music. College basketball.”
“What kind of music?”
“All kinds. Classical, jazz, modern. He had a thing for Shakira.”
“Shakira?”
“Have you heard of her?”
He nodded. “She’s popular with inmates.”
“Her music or her pictures?”
“Both.”
They were the only customers, so the food came quickly. She dug into her crispy chicken taco, which was piping hot and flavorful. It had lettuce, cheese and a mild green sauce. Cole’s burrito was delivered with red sauce in a little plastic cup. He poured salsa on every bite and finished it in record time.
“This is one of the three meals I missed the most,” he said, counting off on his fingers. “Thanksgiving dinner is the first. They give you turkey in prison, but it’s not the same. The second is In-N-Out Burger.”
“A California classic,” she agreed.
“Were you born here?”
She’d already given it away, so she nodded.
“Did you marry young?”
“I was twenty-five.”
“How old are you now?”
“Thirty-three.”
He didn’t say she looked younger. “How was the sex?”
She almost choked on her tea.
“Was it good?”
Swallowing hard, she answered honestly. “It was better than good.”
“Sounds like he was a lucky man.”
She wiped her mouth with a napkin and pushed away her plate. Coming here with Cole was a mistake. One of many, sparked by lassitude and loneliness. If she continued on this trajectory, she’d get burned.
“Have you dated since he was killed?” he asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I haven’t been attracted to anyone.”
Except him. The silent addition hung between them, increasing the tension.
“That’s a pretty big compliment,” he said quietly. Then his brows drew together. “Unless...”
“Unless what?”
“Do I remind you of the men who attacked you?”
She thought of the fantasy he’d starred in, and a wave of shame coursed through her. “You don’t look like them, and I’m not afraid of you.”
“But?”
“You’re dangerous. You might be rough.”
“You want it that way?”
She didn’t know. Maybe she did. Maybe she needed to role-play with a safe partner, or submit to a dominating one. A man like Cole might be able to transform her fear into pleasure. To unlock her sexuality and make her feel alive again.
“I can give you whatever you need,” he said.
She wasn’t sure what she needed, but she knew what she wanted—and couldn’t have. Fresh tears filled her eyes at the thought of going home alone. The prospect stretched before her like a road to nowhere. It was ironic that Cole had been struggling with overstimulation since his prison release. Too many sights and sounds and motions. She had the opposite problem. Everything was a sand-colored blur.
He handed her a pale brown napkin.
“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her cheeks. “I don’t usually cry in public.”
“Do you keep your feelings bottled up inside?”
“Most of the time, I don’t feel anything.” She rose to throw away her trash.
He followed, clasping his hand around her upper arm. “Let me take you somewhere,” he said, close to her ear. “I’ll make you feel good.”
The temptation to give in was overwhelming. She was too needy right now, too emotional. She had to put some distance between them. Jerking her arm from his grasp, she headed toward the lake, still fighting tears. One of her heels got caught in the hem of his too-long jeans and she stumbled. But she didn’t fall. She kept going. There was an empty parking lot near the shore, and a closed visitor center with a shaded rest area. Ducking around the corner of the building, she pressed her back against the cool concrete. She just needed a few minutes to think. Before she did something really stupid, like sleep with him.
At sunset, golden rays shimmered on the surface of the water and lit up the Santa Rosa Mountains in the background. It struck her as starkly beautiful in a way that only the desert was. Beautiful like snakeskin. Scaly and incandescent.
Cole caught up with her easily. He stood next to her, taking in the view. “I used to come here to get high.”
“With your friends?”
“Girls, friends. Whoever. We’d party on the other side of the lake.”
“Sounds fun.”
“It was. Fun and simple and free.”
She heard the wistful edge in his voice. It wasn’t easy to grow up and make adult choices. “I can’t be with you, Cole.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m your psychologist.”
“I’d rather have you in my bed.”
Yes. That was obvious. “I think the sessions are really helping you.”
He turned toward her, bracing his forearm next to her head. Effectively boxing her in. His left hand grasped her waist, searing through the thin fabric of her blouse. “We can switch to private sessions.”
“Cole—”
“Just give me one session between your legs,” he said, leaning in closer. His breath fanned the side of her neck. “I’ll keep my cut on. You can come with my leather under your fingertips, and forget about theirs.”
Oh God. She parted her lips to protest, but no words came out. He took advantage of her indecision by kissing her. His mouth crushed over hers and his tongue thrust inside, possessive. He tasted like soda and cilantro, spicy and hot. His lips were slightly oily. Their chemistry was raw and real and explosive. Electric, like desert lightning.
She was thrilled by his lack of refinement. He switched angles, his tongue probing the recesses of her mouth. She kissed him back with pleasure. One of her hands lifted to his shoulder, where muscles bunched beneath her palm. The other threaded through his short hair and tugged. Maybe he liked having his hair pulled, because he groaned and deepened the kiss, pressing her back against the wall. He cupped her bottom and squeezed. She moaned into his mouth as his erection swelled at the cradle of her thighs.
God. He was big.
The flesh that had been tenderized on his bike ride revved to life once again. She felt wet. Her
nipples were tight little stubs. She wanted his mouth all over her, his skin on her skin, his fingers stroking her slippery cleft. She wanted that big cock, filling her up.
He lifted her against the wall, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He thrust against her in crude motions, grinding her into the concrete. It was good, but not good enough. Not nearly good enough.
He broke the kiss, panting. Pinning her in place with his lower body, he moved his hands to her breasts. He was rough there, too. After plumping them together to create eye-pleasing cleavage, he curled his fingers into the lace cups of her bra and yanked the fabric apart. Her nipples popped free, nudging his tattooed knuckles.
His nostrils flared at the sight. “I need to fuck you.”
Warning bells went off in her mind. They were in a public place. There might be campers nearby. Anyone could park at the visitor center or use the restroom. But the warning bells weren’t quite as loud as her libido. Blood rushed in her ears and pulsed between her legs. Her throbbing pussy was in charge.
He transferred her to a concrete picnic table about five feet away. Laying her on the cool surface, he ripped the Teflon tape at her waistband and pulled the jeans down her hips. Her panties were damp, clinging to the lips of her sex.
His eyes darkened with lust. He stripped the stretchy lace to her upper thighs, just enough to give him access. Leaving the jeans and panties in a tangle, he urged her knees toward her chest and fumbled with his belt.
Mia felt a surge of panic. She wasn’t sure what triggered her. Maybe it was the thought of him thrusting into her with no further preliminaries. The smooth concrete underneath her reminded her of the polished wood floor in the guest room. She was suddenly aware of her prone position and the thousand wrongs she was doing.
“No,” she gasped, her heart pounding.
He went still. “What?”
She swallowed hard, aware that he could overpower her. He could hold her down and clamp his hand over her mouth. “I can’t.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“No.”
He retreated from her, his mouth tense. He had a condom package, unopened, between his fingertips. His belt was undone and his fly was open, revealing plaid boxer shorts. An impressive erection strained the denim gap. “We can go to a hotel.”
She scrambled to her feet and fixed her clothes. “It’s not the place. We shouldn’t do this anywhere.”
He pocketed the condom, his brows slanting together.
She figured that he wasn’t used to hearing women say no, especially at this late stage. Sex was probably a done deal for him as soon as the lady hopped on his bike. And, despite what he’d said earlier about being able to stop anytime, he seemed angry. Maybe stopping wasn’t as easy as he’d thought. He was an impulsive person, to the point of violence. Curbing any physical urge must be a struggle for him.
“Just give me back my purse,” she said. “I can call a cab from here.”
Swearing under his breath, he zipped up his pants and fastened his belt. “Whatever,” he said, striding away from the picnic area. When they reached the taco stand, she put on her jacket. Tears threatened again, burning at the edges of her vision.
“I’ll take you home,” he said.
“You can’t.”
“Right. Because I might murder you in your sleep.”
“No, because you’re wearing a tracking device.”
He scowled at the reminder. “That fucking thing. I’m about to get some bolt cutters and bust it.”
She took a deep breath, glancing up at the twilight-blue sky. She couldn’t believe she wanted to have sex with a man who was wearing an ankle monitor. Or that she almost had. In a public park.
“I can drop you off at King’s Castle. It’s on my way.”
King’s Castle was a big casino with a ton of traffic. She could get a cab there easily. “I’d rather ride the bus.”
“Then I’ll take you to the transit center.”
She agreed, and they climbed on his motorcycle. This ride wasn’t half as fun as the last. Maybe because they were driving away from freedom and escape, instead of toward it. When they reached the transit center, she hopped off.
“Wait here and I’ll change out of your jeans,” she said.
He shrugged, retrieving her purse. She went to the restroom to slip into her skirt and returned his jeans, neatly folded. He stashed them in the compartment, still warm from her body.
“I have to see you again,” he said.
“You will. On Thursday.”
“That’s not what I meant. It’s not what I what.”
It wasn’t what she wanted, either. But it was all they’d get.
“Was I too rough?”
Her cheeks heated with a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure. There were people milling around the bus station. Mexican women with heavy bags. A homeless man pushing a shopping cart.
“I can be gentle, if you like that. I can be whatever you need.”
She stared into his desert-pale eyes for a moment, believing him. “I’ll see you Thursday,” she whispered, and walked away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HE’D FUCKED UP.
It took him a few minutes to figure that out. The ride to the transit center cooled him off. When he’d started to think with his brain, instead of his dick, he’d acknowledged his mistake. He’d pushed her too hard, too fast. She’d seemed so hot for him, responding to his touch with breathless little moans. He’d been unbelievably aroused and out of control. He’d fallen on her like an animal.
He’d jumped the gun with Tiffany, too, more out of drunken horniness than runaway lust. She hadn’t minded. She’d just smiled afterward and patted his cheek.
Mia was different. She hadn’t been with anyone since her husband. Not by choice, anyway. If her last experience with a man had been a terrifying assault, it was no wonder she’d objected to Cole’s clumsy, aggressive groping. What woman wanted to get pounded after two seconds of foreplay? Especially one who hadn’t been ridden in years.
Christ.
He hadn’t meant to rush. He’d wanted to savor every inch of her, to suck on those beautiful tits and lick her pussy until she screamed his name. But he’d hardly even touched her, let alone tasted her. One look at her berry-colored nipples, which were the same shade as her pretty lips, had him aching to come. When he’d yanked down her jeans and seen her wet panties, he’d lost it. She was ready, he was more than ready, and his body screamed to fuck.
The hell of it was that he didn’t think he’d get a second chance with her. She wouldn’t ride on his bike again, let alone his cock. She’d only done it once because he’d caught her in a vulnerable moment, crying on a bus bench. He wasn’t sure why she’d agreed, actually. She had something going on. Death wish. Savior complex. Sexual hang-ups.
He groaned at the thought of working out those kinks with her. Whatever she wanted, he’d do. Anything she asked for. Maybe after this informant job was over, he could have her. He hadn’t allowed himself to think that far into the future. His first order of business had been finding out what happened to his brother. But Cole had more questions than ever about Rylan’s death. Cole still didn’t know whom to blame, and all of this family shit was complicated. He didn’t want to betray his uncle or testify against him. If Cole turned, he could never show his face in this town again. He’d have to move away and live under a new identity.
Like Mia.
It didn’t look easy.
He wondered if she’d gone with him out of plain old loneliness. She hadn’t been with a man in years. She missed sex—with her husband. Cole knew he wasn’t her usual type. She didn’t go for thugs and lowlifes. He’d just been in the right place at the right time. And he’d blown it.
Fuck.
It was full dark when he reached the Hidden Palms. Otherwise known as the “Hairy Palms,” a teenage joke he’d shared with his friends. The nickname was particularly apt tonight. He was going to lock himself in his room and spend a
quality evening with his hand down his pants, thinking about Mia.
He parked directly behind his room instead of out front, planning to use the balcony entrance. It was sneaky and paranoid, but whatever. He didn’t want to answer any questions about where he’d been. As he climbed off the bike, he noticed a long figure skirting the shadows at the edge of the property.
Cole went still. He recognized a shady character when he saw one. He was one, after all. He’d sneaked away from the hotel regularly during his misspent youth. Sticking close to the fence line, rather than crossing the middle of the parking lot, offered the cover of darkness. This person didn’t want to be seen.
Cole’s adrenaline kicked into overdrive. They were in Dirty Eleven territory. Drug dealers knew better than to sling their shit around here without permission. This creep could be a mischievous teenager, but his shape suggested an adult man. He might be a Peeping Tom. About five years ago, his uncle had caught some pervert hanging around the pool and trying to peep into the ladies’ room. They’d knocked his fucking teeth out. Cole clenched his hands into fists and pursued the suspicious visitor, ready to do it again.
As the guy rounded the corner, stepping from the parking lot to the sidewalk, Cole got a glimpse of a lightning bolt on the back of his jacket.
Mother. Fucker.
Why would a member of White Lightning be here? Cole abandoned stealth and started jogging toward him.
“Hey,” Cole yelled, deciding to give the guy a chance to explain himself. What he really wanted to do was tackle him from behind and start wailing on him.
The outlaw stopped on the sidewalk and turned around. Cole couldn’t believe his eyes. It was Dwight “Dimebag” Arno, the brother of Jesse “Jester” Arno. Jester was the man Cole had stabbed for raping his cousin Courtney.
“Are you lost?” Cole asked, dumbfounded.
Dimebag laughed at the question, shaking his head. “If it isn’t Shank Shepherd. How the fuck are you, man?”
Cole didn’t like the Arnos or anyone else in their shitty club. White Lightning was scum. They’d always been scum. The fact that they’d been involved in his brother’s death made Cole’s blood boil. So did Dimebag’s presence here, and his bold, nonchalant manner. Dimebag was big, but he wasn’t as big as Cole. The other man had a beer gut and a receding hairline. He should be shitting his pants right now. Instead, he was shooting the breeze.
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